


Interim

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Prostitution, Self-Worth Issues, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5155742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn hasn't been allowed near a case since Yin. Lassiter thinks it's for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interim

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant with everything up until the season 4 finale, and then straying a bit into AU territory—that is, the bitterness and angst that I think would have fit much better.

A couple weeks away from detective work makes sense. Just like Abigail breaking up with him, and the grief for Mary Lightly (in spite of how  _weird_  that guy was), and like Juliet's vacation make sense.

Shawn accepts it—as much as he'd like a case to get his mind off things, he knows that Gus doesn't want to get back into it right away, and it probably wouldn't be the same without Jules anyway. He takes Lassiter's advice (which wasn't delivered like advice, but he's sure that's what it was) to heart and doesn't bother them.

But when he feels it appropriate to jump back in the game, Lassiter doesn't seem to agree.

Initially it's no different than the guy's usual curt-but-occasionally-clever comments—he shoos Shawn away, tells him the SBPD doesn't need his help, makes a slight joke at his expense. Sometimes leaves room for Shawn to retort, to say something about his hair or his tie or even compliment him before he officially makes him go.

And then one by one, the niceties stop. Their repertoire stops and Lassiter just doesn't participate in their usual dynamic at all. He acts like it was never there to begin with and if he says anything at all to Shawn before having someone escort him out, it's "we have no need for you" or "stay out of the station until we  _call_  you, Spencer."

So Shawn retaliates—or it feels like it, even if it's what Lassiter seems to want—and stops complimenting him, stops trying to keep the fun part of their dynamic alive, stops even trying to get cases, really.

Eventually the only reason he even goes into the station is to see whether they've outright banned him from visiting yet. They still haven't.

 

* * *

 

Spencer is a fucking  _idiot_.

Except he's really not. He's a goddamn genius and Carlton doesn't hate it so much as he hates how impossible it is for him to stop thinking about it.

He remembers how he felt the first time around with Yang: first and foremost, jealous. And then self-disgust—because why the fuck should he be  _jealous_  that a serial killer is targeting Spencer? Carlton still feels that same back-and-forth whenever he remembers it because  _god_ , his self-esteem must really be fucked up if he wants the attention of a wackjob like that.

There was a sick sense of pride in him when Spencer quit and Yang called him out, and he hated it. But even more he hated Spencer for quitting in the first place, even if it became evident later that it was a tactic—he hated that the man could be so fucking brilliant and  _still_ be a jackass.

Carlton has absolutely no idea what to make of him, especially now.

He wants to be angry that Spencer ever came to Santa Barbara in the first place (because then there'd be a couple less dead people and his partner never would have been captured by a fucking serial killer), but he can't. That's just unreasonable, especially because Juliet never would have come to Santa Barbara in the first place.

He's just looking for excuses to hate him and he knows it.

After spending time around both of Spencer's parents, some things about him make more sense. The need to rebel, the literal inability to stay in one place—hell, even the disdain he holds for police work. But frankly, he could have been an amazing cop if he wanted to. Carlton hates to acknowledge it but it's true: Spencer could have been better than  _all_  of them. He  _is_  better than all of them and yet he takes nothing seriously, and he opts out of living up to his potential, and Carlton can't think of  _anything_  more infuriating.

He's just amazing. He's fucking amazing and unbelievable but still manages to be an idiot and Carlton simply can't have that—he  _won't_  have it.

How many times has Spencer nearly died, now? Probably more than he even knows. And statistically speaking, he's not going to keep getting lucky forever. Someday Carlton or Henry or Juliet won't be on time to save his ass.

Why does he have to be so fucking stupidly confident that he isn't going to die? Why does he have to try to act like he's above  _everything_?

Maybe it's partially just plain bitterness on Carlton's part. And jealousy. Because he is willfully overlooking how many people have been saved by Spencer's skill, after all—but he likes to think that he's being a genuinely good samaritan by doing this. By keeping him from the real cases and off the radar, so he has no more accomplishments for serial killers to use as motivation for some sick game.

In the process it's keeping them from interacting much aside from short, cold, tension-filled encounters, but he considers it worth it.

 

* * *

 

He almost doesn't see him. The only reason he does is because on the way out of the station on his lunch break (to visit Juliet at City Hall, oddly enough), he smells the smoke, and thinks to turn his head.

And there, on the bench closest to the stairs out front, is Spencer. With a cigarette in his mouth.

Carlton stops in his tracks and, for a moment, just stands and stares. This is the first he's even seeing of him today—does he do this before all of his visits?

It takes a moment for Shawn to un-squint, blink the moistness back into his eyes and see Lassiter walking towards him, and he merely intends to take another drag (because he'll need it) before the cigarette is ripped right out of his hand and squashed underneath the other man's shoe.

And then he just gapes.

"...Uh, I was smoking that."

Carlton scowls. "Since when the hell do you even smoke, Spencer?"

"Since whenever, what the fuck is your problem?"

As Shawn returns his scowl, Carlton is genuinely taken aback. For all the insults that mouth has hurled at him, he feels like he's just been spit on, somehow. Particularly because Spencer has to know  _exactly_  what his problem is.

"That's a disgusting habit and I thought you were better than that," he tells him. And it's true; not once in the past four years has he had any evidence of Spencer using those methods of stress relief, let alone any shred of a notion that he  _would_.

"Well, count that as the five-hundred-and-twenty-first time you were wrong about something," he snipes back with a mirthless smile. "At least when I was around to see it."

At the exact moment that Carlton is occupied with thinking that  _there's no way he actually counted,_  Shawn reaches into his pocket for a box of Marlboros and a lighter.

Before he can pull out a second cigarette, though, Carlton acts on impulse again and swipes the box away with something in between outrage and bafflement on his face.

"What the  _fuck_ , Spencer?"

All Shawn can think to say for a second is a scoff of sheer amazement.

"First you keep me from cases and now you're gonna keep me from smoking, too?" He scoffs again and avoids looking Lassiter in the eye. "Is Henry putting you up to this? Because I really didn't ask for a second dad."

"Henry has nothing to do with this." Carlton notices a hint of relief in Spencer's face as he says so. "But maybe I wouldn't be acting like him if you weren't suddenly behaving like a bratty teenager."

"Except, you know, I'm a fucking  _adult_ , Lassie. If I want to spend my own money on lung cancer I  _will_. And you 'confiscating' my cigs is actually illegal, unlike me smoking them."

As Shawn holds his hand out for them, Carlton spends several seconds staring again—just trying to figure him the fuck  _out_. He can't tell whether it's disgust or concern that he feels, but ultimately he decides that Spencer's right: he's an adult. And if he's gonna pull this shit then he's not worth Carlton's time.

Without another word, he drops the box in Spencer's hand and resumes walking to his car. A scowl remains on his face all the way to City Hall.

 

* * *

 

Gus would likely do the same thing if he saw Shawn smoking, but he's his best friend. He'd have the  _right_ _—_ and Shawn wouldn't risk letting him know, anyway.

Who the fuck does Lassiter think he  _is_? Treating him like shit for weeks and then trying to boss him around on his own time... Ignoring, of course, the fact that Shawn was sitting outside the station at a time that he definitely knew Lassiter would be walking out of the building, because that doesn't matter. Him wanting to see a reaction doesn't necessarily justify said reaction.

Frankly, he never thought he'd be the kind of person to smoke either, but he never knew how much it would help. Unlike alcohol, it's acceptable in public and in the daytime, and for at least a few minutes, his mind slows down. Everything smooths together and his body relaxes.

It doesn't even hurt, or taste nearly as bad as he always expected. In fact it makes chips taste  _better_  if he eats them right after, and blowing smoke makes him feel... for lack of a better word, cool. Like a dragon, or a biker. _Or a dragon biker._

He'd be lying if he said that the fact that Gus would disapprove doesn't give him any pause, though.

Jules would just be disappointed in him, which is something he'd rather not think about.

The fact that Lassiter is outright  _angry_  about it just makes him feel the need to smoke more—not even out of spite, but out of stress.

Somehow, at least, Shawn does trust him not to go telling his dad on him. But he starts thinking that he's just doing himself more harm than good by waiting around for a case, or even going near the station at all.

Not to say that he always does what's good for him.

 

* * *

 

Juliet's finally come back to work, but that's the only thing that's gone back to normal. Frankly, Carlton is slightly angry that Spencer hasn't even come around to see that she's okay—but he hasn't seen him since he caught him smoking.

 _Fucking coward,_  he can't help but think.

His partner asks about their consultant, of course. If he's helped on any cases while she was gone and just... what he's been up to.

He half-lies and tells her that he hasn't seen much of Spencer at all.

Carlton really doesn't expect to  _never_  see him again—he figures there'll eventually be some case that the Chief wants to hire him for, and/or Spencer will just get over himself. But it's about the  _last_  thing he expects to find him when and where he does. That is: on his day off, during a drive through the shadier parts of town.

He's only there to go check up on a few of the parolees he put away years ago, one of whom is living out of a motel. And not even a block down from there he sees a rather bulky man leaning against the edge of a bar, talking to some woman who he notices has fairly broad shoulders and narrow hips, especially for a prostitute—

It's not a woman. In the dim light coming from the streetlamp as he slows down, Carlton sees his face. With gelled-back hair, a crop top, obscenely short shorts, and... ( _is that makeup?_ ), he's nearly unrecognizable, but it's definitely him.

Almost immediately, and without thinking, Carlton pulls over and stops the car. The next thing he knows he's slamming the driver's door shut and marching over there, heart pounding so loud it's all he can hear.

"Hey!"

The guy chatting Spencer up turns around, probably to say something nasty or stupid, but Carlton flashes his badge quickly enough to get him to bail. Shawn himself, meanwhile, takes a second to register what just happened.

And when he does, he simply frowns and leans against the wall with folded arms.

"Let me guess, you're here to arrest me, officer?"

Oddly enough, Carlton didn't even think of that. He's only ever arrested prostitutes when he had a quota to fill—he personally doesn't even believe it should be illegal, since for some it's the only way to make their money.

But Spencer? No, Spencer's not allowed to do this.

Instead of saying anything, Carlton grabs him by the upper arm (which he thinks he sees some glitter on) and drags him out of the lamplight, further back against the building where people are less likely to see.

In those seconds Shawn doesn't resist the vice grip on his arm, but he quickly gets much more pissed than before.

"Jesus, I guess I'm not allowed to make an honest living at all, anymore?" he spits. "Do you just want me to go broke? Do you actually hate me  _that fucking much_ , Lass—?"

"Did he touch you?" Carlton demands when he finally stops, which throws him off.

Shawn just stares for a moment, and then frowns slowly. "What?"

"The _guy_. The one you were talking to—did he  _touch_  you, Shawn."

Carlton barely registers the name he just used, doesn't even think of why the other man continues to stare and not answer him—he just starts scanning his body like his police instincts tell him to  _because that guy looked like bad news_  and then—

He sees a bruise on Shawn's hip, half-covered by the top of his shorts, and Carlton's eyes widen.

"Did someone hurt you?"

Halfway in between amusement and annoyance, Shawn almost laughs.

"It's a fucking hickey, Lassie—it's called sex work for a reason."

It's hard to gauge Lassiter's reaction to that, and he can only guess the man himself doesn't know what he's feeling. Shawn doesn't even know if  _he_  should be angry right now—he isn't quite sure what this is.

"What the fuck are you  _doing_  here, Spencer?" he finally says, voice and eyes full of disgust. "You're—fuck, I  _know_ you're better than this, you're  _smarter_  than this, don't you know how fucking dangerous this is? Not to mention illegal, I can't fucking believe you—"

"Damn, I'm sorry, maybe you could give me my job back, then?" Shawn counters, raising his voice so that he's almost yelling. "I need money, Lassie, and I've done this before—I know what I'm doing. It's easy pay."

Carlton doesn't know whether he'd rather think that this is Spencer's first go at prostituting himself. God, how many times has he done this? Just the idea of it makes him feel like his heart has dropped into his stomach.

He swallows, keeping his eyes on Shawn's.

"And it's worth it? It's worth it, to you, to wear these ridiculous clothes and let strangers touch you and take advantage of you like you're some whore?"

"I am a whore," Shawn snaps, straightening up. "That's what it's called when you get paid for sex, isn't it? And either way why the hell do you care, you—"  _Wait._  He leans back against the brick wall again, expression more relaxed. "Oh. I know what this is about, Lassie—you're  _jealous_."

Shawn's mouth stretches into a wicked grin, and Carlton's goes dry.

"What are you talking about?"

"You just want me all to yourself," he practically breathes, glancing down to his crotch for evidence. "It's okay, I get it. You know what, I'll give you a freebie—I always did have a thing for the Rod Taylor type."

Shawn's voice seems to ring in his ears, keeping him from reacting as a hand reaches out to grab his shirt and pull him closer, all the way in for a kiss.

And then he can't help but reacting—his eyes close, his hands brace against the wall, and parts of him tell him not to pull away, but Shawn's lips taste like tobacco and he smells like cologne that was probably on the last guy who fucked him and—he  _can't_. Not like this.

"Did it ever occur to you, Spencer," he says roughly as he pulls away, "that I actually fucking care what happens to you? Maybe I don't want you to die from some stupid mistake on a case like you've already nearly done so many times. Maybe I don't think you're actually stupid enough to smoke. Maybe I'm worried about some guy killing you and throwing you in a ditch once he's done fucking you—maybe I don't want the next body bag that comes into the morgue to be yours,  _fuck_ , did you ever think about  _that_?"

If anyone's nearby, they probably heard that. But Carlton can't find it in himself to care.

Meanwhile Shawn can't find it in himself to respond. So Carlton continues:

"And maybe I just hate you in this stupid fucking outfit. Maybe I hate the idea of hundreds of guys having their way with you—because they don't even fucking  _know_  you! They don't deserve it."

"..Hundreds?" he finally mutters. "Wow, I didn't think you'd give me that much credit, Lassie."

For several seconds there's nothing but heavy breathing between them, and Carlton wants to ask him how many guys  _have_  fucked him, if they hurt him, if they used condoms, if they even used lube, if they underpaid him (the answer would be yes no matter what because Shawn Spencer shouldn't be able to be bought), or if... if it's even possible for him to take things seriously.

What comes out instead is, "Where are your clothes?"

"Uh." Shawn blinks, a bit startled by the question. "In my room. At the motel down the road."

Carlton only has to grab his arm again to let him know that's where they're going.

 

* * *

 

Shawn honestly doesn't know why he's here. He feels like in most other circumstances he would have kept arguing, refused to get into the car with him, or at least would have talked the whole way there.

But he's been silent and agreeable, and here he is now—in the motel room, obeying Lassiter's order of "take that shit off" and not even in a sexy way. After wiping the tint and glitter off his face, he doesn't even bother stepping into the bathroom to change. The most he offers is that he puts his plaid button-up on over the makeshift crop top, and turns around while he replaces the shorts (under which he's wearing nothing, and which Carlton notices before averting his eyes) with boxers and jeans.

Finally, Shawn turns back around and raises his arms in a bland sort of  _ta-da_. And then he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"There you go. Never really pegged you for a guy who'd prefer this to what I had before, but... whatever floats your boat."

Carlton prefers it because it's actually  _him_. It feels right, and it's not a cheap attempt at attracting attention—which Shawn does well enough on his own. There's one thing that isn't quite right, though, and Carlton doesn't hesitate to grab the comb from the bathroom counter and fix it.

Gelled hair just does  _not_  work for him. Of course, combing the hardened gel out doesn't put it back to normal, but at least it looks more natural.

When he's done (and makes no move to do anything else), Shawn stares at him for a moment.

"You know, Lassie...," he starts, thinking he might understand now, "when I said I had a thing for the Rod Taylor type, I wasn't lying. Unless you count lies of omission because in that case I should mention that there are... a  _lot_  of other reasons why I'd like you to fuck me."

With a small smile, he inches forward—but Carlton leans back.

"...Where the hell is your self-worth, Spencer?" he asks, looking at him in genuine concern.

Shawn stares back incredulously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just twenty minutes ago you thought I hated you. And I've barely given you a reason to think otherwise—for the past two months I treated you like... like I didn't even know you."

"...If you don't want me, then what the hell was all that ' _they don't deserve you_ ' talk?" Shawn presses, expression twisted into utter disbelief, and not swaying from his spot.

Carlton doesn't move from his, either, but his face softens.

"I never said I didn't."

_Oh._

"You just think you don't deserve me either," he says quietly. Carlton doesn't deny it, which is enough of a confirmation. "Why?"

"If you were actually psychic, you wouldn't have to ask."

...He doesn't know what to say to that.

Ironically enough, the answer would be  _because_  he's not psychic. Because Carlton knows he actually does what he does through pure skill, and because he may reject order and rules but he's freer and happier than Carlton could ever imagine himself, and he wouldn't want to weigh that down.

(Though maybe he should also be asking where the hell his  _own_  self-worth is at.)

"How many men have had you tonight?" is the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

Shawn raises an eyebrow, but something in him forces him to answer without question: "Six. Two were just blowjobs. I gargled mouthwash afterward, if it matters to you."

Honestly, it does.

"And how many times did you get to come?"

Surprisingly, Shawn's expression doesn't change much.

"One guy did have the courtesy to give me the reach-around. It was a little disappointing, though."

Carlton nods, then—that's all he needs to hear.

He's not going to fuck Shawn—not tonight, not in this dingy motel on semen-stained sheets, not when four other cocks have been there before him, not when he can't even be sure if or how Shawn really wants him.

But he can give him something. He  _wants_ to—desperately, inexplicably, Carlton wants to do this for him.

"Sit on the edge of the bed,"

Shawn obeys.

And the moment his ass hits the mattress, Carlton's knees hit the floor.

He's only had the jeans on for a few minutes but they're already coming off, at least to mid-thigh. It's not like he expected to keep them on very long anyway.

Not that he expected this, either. Lassiter mouthing him through his boxers and holding his hips like he might float away without them, jerking the waistband down like he wants nothing more to get a real taste of him and fucking  _moaning_  once his lips are around his cock...

Shawn gasps and quickly, sharply tangles his fingers in the other man's hair. He doesn't pull him forward, but Carlton takes it as a request to go deeper anyway.

He swallows him down until he's at his limit, and then he goes further. He pushes it until his throat stings and his jaw aches and he's all but crying, and his hands don't come off Shawn's hips to relieve himself for one second. Because he needs this—he needs to give Shawn what those johns didn't and  _wouldn't_ , he needs to convince him never to do this again, he needs to hear him and know that he's  _good enough_.

He needs to deserve him.

Shawn shouts his name when he comes and Carlton's ready to swallow it, to suck every last drop out of him, and by the time he pulls off Shawn has already ridden it out completely. He barely allows time for Carlton to breathe a sigh of relief before grabbing the back of his collar and hoisting him up so that his knees come off the floor.

And then he kisses him like they should have before this, and Carlton doesn't resist, doesn't try to say that Shawn needs better standards or that they can't be like this. He curls his hand around the back of Shawn's neck and kisses back like he knows he deserves it.

Neither of them really want to spend much longer on the bed or the floor or in this room at all, so within a couple minutes Shawn has his pants pulled back up, prostitute clothes and makeup in his bag, and a wad of nearly a thousand dollars in his pocket.

Objectively it's a very well-paying line of work, but... truthfully, he's never enjoyed it nearly as much as he thought he should.

"...So does this mean you're gonna let me work cases again?" he decides to ask, right as Carlton has his hand on the doorknob.

At which he pauses before turning it, glancing over.

"I will. But only if you tell me exactly how you do what you do."

Shawn wants to laugh— _after all this time, is that what this has been about?_  But instead he just smirks and sighs, following him out of the motel.

"Fair enough."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to note that I'm basing Shawn's experiences with/feelings toward smoking off of my own, and not necessarily endorsing nicotine addiction or anything. I personally enjoy the taste and the sensation, but it obviously wouldn't be the same for everyone. If you value your flesh vessel then please don't start smoking.
> 
> I will not, however, deny that they're an effective stress relief and that it even helps me with my appetite issues.


End file.
